Note3

At the morning watch I begin
to turn from thoughts of self to
thoughts of others. I seek the
many facets of humanity to enjoy
how smiles can be so versatile
and wear so many different forms.
I withdraw, to watch, study every
soul - how the center of each one
tries to hide behind a mask, protect
itself from harm. See, a tinge of
darkness covers everything with
moodiness. Yet, the light is at its
heart. We are rising from the ashes
of our yesterdays. We are throwing
off the wordly ways and and going in.
Here, I meet my brothers/sisters,
tell them it's alright. For the sake
of my integrity - what that means
to me, you can trust me with
your brilliance.

Note 2

When I ask you a question
I really want to know what
the answer means to you. I
want to feel what it is that
you feel, share in your sense
of wonder. How wide your
eyes grow as they open to
perceive the light of a fresh
revelation. See, it shines
through you! I observe. My
existence is a mirror for
your self knowledge. How
marvelous this is! How
Super Natural - yet, real
as the here and now. Angels
and beautiful mortals revolve
around your personal beacon
whenever you shine like this
and expose your inner Joy.

Note 1

Today, I look at people, linger, make full
contact, delight in their light. I am focused
on them, forget my own concerns, lay aside all
worries. I will speak honestly to them - encourage,
acknowledge, validate. Today, I go to search deeply,
diligently for the powerful beacon inside myself. Yes,
myself - so that I may use it to find mirror images
of flame and draw them out. I will speak words that
inspire because I know that this language that I use
exists so that I may connect with them. My purpose
here is bound up with the light inside others. I value each,
go out and dance to the individual music of their souls.
It is a game, a mode of play, a light hearted intercourse.
We breathe in lightness of being, breathe out lightness
of good will. Today, I greet each one who comes to me
as a spark, a messenger of illumination. I trade my glow
with their beaming smiles, appreciate the many stars
in this galaxy of human enjoyment.

A Poem About Magic

Through weavings of bramble and hedge,
shaded from the blue and sun, play salamander,
fairies, good and bad alike ( this,determined by
interpreters of Dream); these are mossy, dust,
limber - hidden. Their common element
is fire, sparked by magic, glimmered flakes
of mayfly wing, bubbling soup of phosphor.
I am scion of a line of druid priests. We were
angels once, beings of the golden chord,
til, thrown to earth for drowning in the cup of pride.
Some of us repented here. Others
have mutated into demon skin. I am
elven, airy brother to a scattered band of wanderers.

All who live here touch their limbs to sod,
walk in footsteps, pounded rhythm of erratic pulse,
heartbeat, energy in bone and clay - a temporary life
( everything material is only here for now
to play some whimsy's part
and then, we all return ).

So, I live amongst Diaspora of Abraham,
rub my shoulders with these men
and women, haggard denizens of
subway car and cafeteria. I, the stranger
no one wants to sit beside, watching for the spark
behind the scowl, looking for the special ones.
I recognize these ancient souls
cacooned in human sheaths. Most of them
forget the nature of the Dream: weavings of electric wire
and aqueduct, networks of computer pathways
binding up a global mind.

Once, today in fact,
I walked a littered pavement through
a gloomy scene of urban blight, saw a wino
propped against a shopping cart
pillowed by a wad of New York Times. He was elven,
I could tell; there were tattooed runes across his wrist.
I was certain, as our eyes connected,
that he knew me for his kin. He was drunk,
had drooping lids of yellow tears
and grit, together hardened in the slant.

"What's the point?" he asked. "Everything is gone.
Cities are no place for faerie folk. I haven't
seen a tree in weeks. Drunk as drunk can be
and nothing else is real. Nothing else is real."

"Who are you?" he asked again,
in language that began to swim with Celtic poetry.
"Who are you, in corduroy and super cut?"
"You have light," I said. "It's just a feeble flicker,
yet, it's still alive. You are meant for better things,
meant to cross the sky in chariot of rainbow,
meant for dance, and fantasy, and elemental lustiness."

"No!" he argued back. "This is not a speech
I need to hear. None on earth desire
our dance of light. Times have changed,
and Thomas Edison has put an end to us."

But
I could not let it go. Could not ignore
the truth of who we were
and what it was inside
that drew me towards the sun
that, even in that moment, strained to cut its way
through clouds above our heads. So,
I bent, and lifted him, bore him in my arms
across a dozen crowded avenues, walked for hours
until we came to Central Park
where we rested in a clearing
ringed by giant rocks, sat against a tree
to watch, as children sailed their model sailboats
on the pond. "See," I told my brother.
"There are sparkles on the water,
light in children's eyes. There is still a chance
that we might call the magic forth. Light is light
wherever it may shine. We are made from light
and - could it be that,
here and now, our race will find a working way
- some way to mingle with that human spark?"

Then, he looked me in the eye
with hungry, searing confidence. "Let us make
a circle in this place, form a faerie ring
of pebbles and of bottle caps.
Yes, we'll call the brethren here
and raise a different song,
forge another magic,
cast this age of shadow out
from dixieland
to Disneyland,
from China
to the glaciers of Antarctica...

Now begins the Time of Light.
I feel it in my bones.
The magic will return. "

Let Me Tell You About the Accordian Man

One grey and chilly Spring afternoon I was walking through a large park in downtown Boston. I had gone into the city to file for a business license at City Hall. Getting there had been a bit of an ordeal; parking lots near the commuter rail in my neighborhood south of town had been filled early and, on a whim, I'd decided to drive into town and park at the one relatively inexpensive municipal garage. Fortunately, that had worked out okay but, after a half hour of maneuvering through urban traffic and then facing the twists and turns of bureaucratic red tape, I was feeling way off center as I found myself heading back to my parking space. I'd been trying to practice my exercise of looking for sparks of light in the faces of people I passed along the sidewalk - but it just wasn't working; I was too frazzled.
Just before the entrance to the garage, I passed down a stretch of walkway that, for some reason, was completely clear of pedestrians. There was only one other soul around: a small, elderly man wearing a wrinkled suit and wide brimmed hat. He was standing on a park bench playing a lively song on an accordian and singing something about "happy, happy, happy". I didn't recognize the song, but I did recognize the light.
There it was - the spark that I'd been looking for. I wasn't in any condition to find it, so it found me.
I reached into my pocket. There was only one dollar bill there ( I needed the twenty for parking), so I dropped it into his open, black satchel. "Thank you" I said. And it wasn't the dollar that made me feel so uplifted for the rest of the day. It was that little, gentle man, his sweet song, the light in his smile - and the great burst of connection that had traveled from him to me and back again as we connected in that simple, five second encounter.
I don't think there was anything particularly unusual about the old fellow. I don't believe he was some guru or angel in disguise ( athough... maybe ). I just think that what it was all about was the search; I'd been looking for light. And there it was. There it always is.
This makes me think about the foundational principal I read in my iPEC coaching manual: "Each person we meet is our teacher and student."
How amazing it is when we are caught unawares by these obvious truths.